Date: Sun, 31 Aug 1997 19:30:03 -0600 (MDT) From: Boy-writer Subject: John Allen (M/b) - part 7/8 It's been a while since I wrote the original "John Allen" story, and I thought I'd add some more if I could. Thanks to Standing Bear for his support and suggestions. In earlier postings, I included a summary of the previous goings-on. I'm not going to do that any more. See the previous parts. As always, don't read this if you're offended by man/boy sex, or if the laws in your area forbid it. This story is really about love, not sex, but there may be some in it. You are warned. JOHN ALLEN (M/b) - part 7 Chapter 18 ---------- John was happier than he'd been in weeks. At times, his feet hardly seemed to reach the ground. And he no longer tried to deceive himself - the upcoming weekend with Jeremy was the cause. Carlita was only slightly bruised, but she gratefully accepted a few days off. At first, she didn't want to leave the house, but Jorge drove her into the city, finding a neighborhood were a lack of understanding of English was not a barrier. The entire family was pleased for her when she found a nice, older Dominican man in a night club there. And then there were two people in the household who were walking on air. John devoted himself to his work with unprecedented zeal, finding a new confidence welling up within. Counseling is at times a frustrating profession; the counselor does his best, and sometimes the patients improve, but how does one know that the counseling has helped? It often seemed that his patients got better without John's help, or perhaps maybe he had helped, but he didn't know how. But now he felt that he could conquer the world, with Jeremy at his side. John was in love, and he knew it; furthermore, he thought that Jeremy, in his own way, felt much the same. There was a long way to go, but Jeremy would make it. With his quick mind, he would conquer the world. It was an odd thing perhaps, but John felt no guilt at all about his attachment to Jeremy, or what they had done in the shower. Love covered it all. The counselor felt no resentment or defiance toward the outside world, which would denounce him as the worst sort of monster if it knew. The world and its opinions did not matter. There was only the smiling face of Jeremy, with his devilish grin and the eyes that had looked on John with adoration, an adoration that John shared. In this light, John combed the literature, even going to the library at the local university a couple times, and adding to the list of publications to which he subscribed. He found that the best treatment for phobias, with which the 4-year-old girl and several of his other patients suffered, was to let them confront their fears, a bit at a time, at first in imagination, then in reality. It made sense. Courage is a habit, as is cowardice, and each victory over one's fears made one stronger, ready to confront the next secret terror and defeat it. With autism, however, the picture was definitely depressing, and John's heart sank as he read, thinking of the little 7-year-old boy he had reluctantly accepted as a patient. It seemed that there were no effective treatments, that all the psychiatric profession had to offer were drugs and restraints, and, in the milder cases, "occupational therapy" that amounted to training the boy to sort returnable cans under close supervision. In earlier years, the boy could only expect to spend the rest of his life in an institution. Now, at the close of the twentieth century, he would probably live out his life in a group home, comfortable and well-tended perhaps, without bars on his window, but never becoming an adult, never taking his proper place in the world. The only ray of hope was a treatment that the parents of one autistic boy had stumbled upon, refusing to accept the grim prognosis that the professionals offered. It consisted of constant, one-on-one interaction with a single person (in this case the boy's mother), in a familiar environment (in this case the family bathroom). At first, the woman simply mimicked her son's actions, rocking with him, imitating his vocalizations, without touching. Later, they touched more, she still rocking with him, playing games on the floor. Finally, he would join in the games, placing pegs in the holes she indicated, arranging blocks to imitate her. The treatment continued constantly for over a year, with occasional setbacks, as the boy gradually came out of himself, his sister and father helping the exhausted mother. Finally, one time, he asked for a glass of milk at dinner. The boy was now a man, perfectly normal. It was the only complete cure for autism in the history of medical science. But that boy had only been two and a half years old, three at the time of his cure. Then again, his autism had been profound. Unlike John's patient, that boy had not been able to speak. The boy John counseled was less afflicted. Perhaps there was hope for him, but John was far out of his depth. The boy would need intensive, one-on-one treatment in a residential setting; fortunately, his parents could afford it. John sent out several letters to various institutions, looking for one that used the treatment method that that determined mother had stumbled upon. If only every child had parents with such single-minded devotion to their needs. It was at times depressing, and not only because of the little autistic boy. John felt for his young patients with a new empathy, reaching for a new understanding. He had lost a bit of his own fear, ready now to lose himself for a time in the tortured souls of his patients, confident that he could come back. To Jeremy, the little demon that now posessed him. Fall was approaching, the air fresh and brisk. John spent more and more time outside, inhaling the goodness of the earth. He noticed with distaste that he had grown flabby, without the daily workout provided by the building of his never-finished house in Costa Rica. Finding a weight set in the well-appointed gym, he began to work out, informing an amused Maria that he needed to lose weight and that she should adjust his meals accordingly. Chapter 19 ---------- Finally Friday came, and John smiled constantly at his staff, ignoring their knowing smiles at him. Jorge seemed to like his pocket watch and dispensed with the old wristwatch he normally wore. It made him look more distinguished, as if he were the counselor and not John. John Allen, Ed.D., fussed with his clothes like a kid going to his first junior high dance, reminding himself that this was therapy, not a date. The goal was for Jeremy to get better, to learn to control his aggression or channel it in socially-acceptable ways - whatever the fringe benefits to John might be. He had a responsibility, gratefully accepted - one that went far beyond the duty of counselor to patient. He was to protect his liege lord and enable him to reclaim the kingdom that his father, the pretender, had deprived him of. Jeremy arrived in long khaki pants, as befitted the weather, with the same red-and-white striped polyester shirt John had seen him in before. He was very quiet, looking at the floor, allowing his mother to hold his hand. She was dressed for a trip herself, in a soft business suit that fitted her well, her long hair done up in a bun, with low-heeled, sensible shoes and tan calfskin gloves. John didn't think any women in America wore gloves any more, except in winter; he half expected Lawrence to come through the door in a fedora and announce that he was taking his wife on the Orient Express. She announced that she wished to speak to John privately. Nodding his assent, he opened the door to the inner office, and she followed. John noticed out the corner of his eye that Jorge was quietly backing Jeremy into a corner. John closed the door. "Dr. Allen," the woman said, "I don't know what you did, but the change in Jeremy has been amazing." She handed over several sheets of paper, the journal John had asked her to start making. He placed it on his desk. "Jeremy is like a new boy. All this week, we've had almost no trouble with him. Well, some trouble," she added, smiling mischeivously, "that's in there," indicating the papers. John smiled; there seemed to be a smile trying to break out of him all the time now. "Glad to hear it," he said, sitting on his desk. "Jeremy doesn't talk much," she said regretfully. "He seems thoughtful." Brightly she added, "But he doesn't break things any more. He touches them, it's like he's thinking about it, nearly gives me a heart attack," she said, laughing, "but then he doesn't. He just gets thoughtful again. It's like he's walking around in a daze." She looked at him with some worry, but more relief. "He's sorting through his feelings, it's a good sign," John answered, not really knowing whether that was true or not. "I suppose so," she said, her eyes tearing up with gratitude. "It's very good of you to agree to take him for the weekend," she added, her strict Baptist upbringing making her feel guilty for having duped him. "We're going to the Cape. It's the off-season now, of course, but we spent our honeymoon there, and it's been years since ...." "I understand," John said, smiling. "Jeremy will be fine." He thought for a moment, trying to recover something he was supposed to ask. Glancing at his blotter jogged his memory. "Oh, one thing. I need the number of Jeremy's pediatrician, in case of an emergency - and a number where you can be reached." "Right here," the woman said, proud of her foresight, handing a paper to John. "Well, Lawrence is waiting, so I'd best be going." She started for the door, then looked back. "Thank you, Dr. Allen, you're ... wonderful." Ashamed of her outburst, she hurried out the door. Jorge quickly stood aside, and Allison blew a kiss at Jeremy. "'Bye, honey. I'll see you Monday." Jeremy looked sullenly at the opposite wall. Allison left, and Jorge went back to his desk, keeping one eye on Jeremy in case John needed help with him. Jeremy stayed in the corner, though, running his finger over the wallpaper. It was up to John to break the ice. He held out his hand. "You want to go work out in the gym again?" he asked, shadow-boxing a bit. Jeremy stayed where he was. "Or do you want to play soccer? Or baseball?" Jeremy sneered at him for an instant, contemptuous of John's admitted inability to play baseball, then turned back to the wall. "What then?" No answer. Playfully, John asked, "Or do you want me to carry you there?" Jeremy smiled at him impishly, then ran along the wall, careful to stay out of range of Jorge. Jorge looked at John, fearful for the safety of his own office, but John motioned for him to stay seated. For a while there was a standoff, Jeremy moving along the wall avoiding his grasp as John slowly advanced. Then John lunged, and Jeremy easily slipped past him, giggling with delight as he ran out into the endless hallways of the enormous house. John followed as fast as he could, emerging into the large entranceway. He looked down the three hallways in front of him, seeing no sign of Jeremy. Suddenly John heard the boy giggling down the hallway in front of him, then just as suddenly the squeak of sneakers on the parquet. Jeremy emerged from one of the doorways with a priceless antique lamp in his hands. He made motions like he was going to smash it on the floor as John, panicked, ran headlong to stop him. Just as John approached, Jeremy let go of the lamp, not smashing it as he'd threatened but throwing it into the air. With the dexterity of a linebacker reaching for a fumble, John threw himself on the floor, sliding on the parquet, catching the valuable lamp at the last instant. Jeremy giggled again and ran off, disappearing into the cavernous hallways of the great mansion. John set the lamp down hurriedly and gave chase, caroming off the walls, careful not to lose sight of the boy. God, he was out of shape, and oxfords were not made for running on parquet. John regretted telling Jorge to stay at his desk and thought of summoning Maria and Carlita, then thought better of it. Jeremy was big enough to escape the grasp of those petite women, big enough to hurt them without meaning to - and John wasn't sure that Jeremy wouldn't mean to. John kept up, though, for the most part not letting Jeremy out of his sight, and on those occasions when the boy disappeared from view, the squeak of his sneakers on the polished floor gave him away. There were some anxious moments for John when Jeremy slipped on the rugs that were sparsely scattered about, and some antique tables that clattered to the floor, their vases thoughtfully removed by Carlita after she returned from her time off. John leaped over them like a hurdle jumper, sometimes sliding uncomfortably as he landed. Finally, Jeremy turned into a hallway that John knew from his thoughtful wanderings through the huge house to be a dead end. Jeremy was trapped - if he didn't find the stairwell. John was very worried about that eventuality, partly because he was almost out of breath, but partly because Jeremy could easily slip and fall on the steep, dust-covered stairs. The man summoned the last of his energy reserve and ran headlong into the corridor, Jeremy's bottom twisting under the khaki, leading him on. Turning the corner, Jeremy looked at the end of the hall and realized he was trapped. He tried several doors, finding nothing but endless rooms, their furniture covered with dust cloths. John was nearly upon him. He opened one more door. Yes! an escape route. Giggling again, Jeremy looked down the steep stairway and stepped forward. His foot never landed on the tread. John, desperate to save the boy from the treacherous stairwell, leaped into the air, clutching Jeremy just above the knees, hoping to catch himself in the doorway by his feet. It was a forlorn hope. John's right foot slipped over the open door, and he started sliding down the stairs on his chest, Jeremy on his back. Bam! bam! bam! bam! bam! they went down, Jeremy's eyes wide open in shock, John absorbing repeated, painful jars to his chin and chest. They fell onto the landing, and John, carried by his momentum, rolled onto his side, pressing Jeremy into the wall. Recovering as fast as he could, John pulled away and sat up, gasping for breath. He pulled Jeremy away from the wall, distracted with concern. "Are you okay?" he asked. Jeremy sat up, staring in wonder. "Wow! Can we do that again?" he asked. John didn't answer but grabbed the boy's head in a vise grip, smothering his face with kisses, then took the very surprised thirteen-year-old in his arms and squeezed the breath out of him. "Never," John said, panting, "never do that again. Too valuable" - *gasp* - "too important." He kissed Jeremy's head repeatedly. "Never" - *gasp* - "never do that. Stairs" - *gasp* - "dangerous. Never do that again." Jeremy struggled, and John let him go so he could breathe. He looked at John in what looked like shock and fear, the same look the boy had had in the shower when John let go. John grabbed him again, more softly this time. "Jeremy," he said, "you're very important to me. I never want you to get hurt." "I'm not hurt," Jeremy protested from John's shoulder, not understanding the man's effusive affection, not really minding it either. "I'm okay. It's okay," he said, rubbing John's back, trying to comfort him. It was wrong for both of them. It was John's place to comfort Jeremy, not the other way around. John let him go, surprised at the tears that had begun to form in his (John's) eyes. "Well," he said, "we're off to the gym, that is, if you have any energy left." He smiled, his eyes sparkling. Jeremy got up, as usual refusing assistance. "I have plenty of energy - you're the one who's old." He returned the smile. "We'll see who's old," John replied, lifting Jeremy easily, placing one arm under the boy's bottom, the other across his back. Jeremy nestled into the man's chest, putting his skinny arms around John's neck. "Don't slip on the stairs," he said, laughing. "I should," John teased, starting back up the stairs. "Slide down on top of you this time." He pretended to slip on a stair tread, and Jeremy jumped. "Don't do that," the boy said, "it's not a good idea," smiling again as he realized it was a trick. "Why not?" "'Cause you would crush me." "Well, I suppose I shouldn't do that. Then you couldn't be my patient any more." "Oh, you have other patients," Jeremy said, teasing, nestling back into John's shoulder. "But you're my favorite," John said, honestly. Jeremy didn't know what to say or how to respond. He remained still as he was carried down the hallway. "Really?" the boy finally asked, his voice very soft. "Really," John said, squeezing tightly with his free arm. Jeremy didn't say anything. John heard a sniffle. He didn't inquire; Jeremy was at an age where such things were embarrassing. John's left arm was getting tired, but he was filled with joy. He felt like dancing. Jeremy wiped his eyes with one hand, then resumed his comfortable position in his counselor's arms. John carried the boy down one flight of stairs, then walked down the first-floor hall to the gymnasium. As he descended the stairs, Jeremy perked up. "Are we gonna do boxing again?" "Yeah. Do you want to?" "Yeah. I want to go on the trampoline too." "Okay," John said, putting the boy down as he opened the door and turned on the light. His servants had cleaned the room even better than before, getting out the cobwebs between the hanging fluoroescent lights. The room smelled of disinfectant. "Pew," Jeremy declared, walking in. "What did they do to it?" "I think they cleaned it. The fan will take care of the smell in a while." "It smells awful." He wandered off toward the trampoline. "Jeremy," John said in an authoritative voice. "Yeah, I know, we have to get dressed," the boy replied disgustedly. John held out his arm, indicating the locker room. Jeremy walked in. John followed. They went back to the same two lockers. "It smells in here too," Jeremy observed, peeling off his shirt. "Even worse than out there." "I'll turn on the shower light. The fan will help remove the smell." With a wary look back, John walked off to do so. When he got back, Jeremy was sitting on the bench in his boxers. "Where's my gym clothes?" he demanded. "Oh, that's right!" John said, walking away again toward the office, which a locksmith had opened. "What's right?" the boy asked, following. "I got you some new ones. I hope they're the right size." He emerged from the office holding a brown paper bag. Jeremy took the bag and pulled the new clothing out, a piece at a time. He held up one item wrapped in plastic. "What's this?" "A jockstrap. A man should wear one when he's working out, so he doesn't get injured." "Oh." John walked back to their lockers and began to remove his clothes, hanging them carefully. Jeremy followed and sat down on the bench, unwrapping things. John was almost fully dressed when he noticed that Jeremy was still sitting there, holding the jockstrap in his hands, looking at it. "What's the matter? Aren't you going to get dressed?" the man asked. "How do I, um, how do you put this on?" Jeremy asked, ashamed of his question. "Didn't you watch me?" "No, you're not s'posed to look at other guys when they get dressed." John looked at the boy, surprised at his modesty. It certainly didn't fit with everything else he knew about Jeremy. He took the jock. "Stand up and take off your underwear," the man said. Jeremy smiled at him and turned around, pulling down his underpants. That smile told John that he'd been had - again. The kid was flirting! Well, it may be a game, but it was one John was perfectly ready to play. His cock was ready too, quickly swelling to its full eight inches. The two soft globes of Jeremy's behind loomed before him, seeming ready and waiting for John's cock. But no, it was too soon. When John took Jeremy that way, if he did, it would not be a rape but with the full, informed consent of both. Jeremy was too precious, too valuable to be treated otherwise. John quickly donned his own gym-shirt, covering his arousal. Jeremy stood up again and turned around, his lips no longer smiling, his eyebrows, however, lifted mockingly. John gasped once again at the beauty of the form before him. The only hair below the boy's head was the slight little moustache above his semi-hard cock. That moustache, though, John knew, was all-important. It gave Jeremy the ability to enjoy sex in a way that younger children could not. Those little, low-hanging eggs, the man knew, could produce the fruit of life - and love. John did not realize he was staring until Jeremy jogged him out of his reverie. "What now?" the boy said. John kneeled down on the floor and held out the jockstrap. Jeremy pretended not to know where to put his feet, and John had to correct him, grabbing a slender ankle and directing it to the correct hole, afraid all the time that the boy, tottering on one foot, would fall and injure himself. He didn't. The right feet went into the right holes, and John pulled the jockstrap up, harder perhaps than he needed to, but then Jeremy deserved it for his little teasing game. "Too tight?" the man asked innocently. "Yeah," Jeremy said, wincing a bit. John lowered the waistband to a more comfortable level. After that, Jeremy dressed quickly, and to John's relief, the clothes fit perfectly. They were a pair of powder-blue shorts and a white shirt with blue trim and an outer-space design on the chest. Knee socks, white with blue stripes at the top, completed the uniform. The shorts were short and slit up the sides, with white trim, the shirt well-fitting, not long, ending slightly below the waistband of the shorts and framing the boy's shoulders well. Unlike the clothes that most boys wear these days, these ones actually fit, and fit well. Jeremy looked absolutely adorable, the compleat boy so to speak, active and ready for the athletic field, his own dirty sneakers only adding charm to the ensemble. Seeing John's smile, Jeremy did not wait but ran out toward the trampoline. John ran after him. Jeremy climbed up onto the trampoline and began to jump up and down. John yelled at him to stop, but he only jumped higher. The old springs twanged, and John stared in horror at the many hooks that were undone. There were no mats on the floor, and if Jeremy missed his mark he would land on cold linoleum, with hard concrete underneath. John ran about frantically, yelling at Jeremy to stop, knowing the only way to get him to stop was to climb on the trampoline with him, knowing that that would probably break the few remaining springs. The man ran around madly, pushing mats under the trampoline, yelling at the boy to stop as he jumped higher and higher, trying to touch the fluorescent lights high above. The springs creaked threateningly, and John's voice rose into a higher octave as he tried ineffectually to get Jeremy to stop jumping. Jeremy didn't care; he was in a world of his own. He seemed destined to fly, turning somersaults in the air, twisting with giddy delight, landing alternately on his back, his stomach, his sides, and his feet. Finally, there was nothing John could do but watch Jeremy as he flew, touching, then kicking the lights above, wincing each time the boy came down, afraid that the creaking springs would finally give way. And at last, as Jeremy came down on his stomach in a swan dive, they did, sounding a metallic cannonade as they gave way, miraculously doing their one remaining duty, that of saving the life of the giddy thirteen-year-old who fell through them onto the three wrestling mats that John had hurriedly laid beneath the old trampoline. Wrapped in canvas, the boy laid motionlessly, seemingly lifeless. With the kind of sudden strength that enables a mother to lift a small car off her child, John tossed away the heavy steel trampoline frame as if it were made of toothpicks, sending it clattering against the wall. He swiftly pulled away the canvas, finding Jeremy inside, lying completely still. It was too much. Twice within the hour, John had been confronted with the death of the sweetest boy on earth, only this time it was a fact. Jeremy was dead. He broke down and cried like a baby, kneeling over the inert body, burying his face in the broken, lifeless back. Then Jeremy stirred. "Wha?" he said, turning his head to the side. "Whoa, what a rush!" John sat up, stunned. It was a miracle. "Oh, God," he said, offering a silent prayer of thanks, and lifted himself to a kneeling position. Jeremy sat up too. "That was rad," the boy said, feeling himself to make sure nothing was broken. Nothing was. "Are you all right?" John asked softly. "Yeah, I think so," the boy replied, moving his legs to make sure they still worked. "Wow, that was great!" "Great?" John said in disbelief. "GREAT??! YOU ALMOST KILLED YOURSELF, AND YOU THINK IT'S GREAT??!!!" he screamed. "Well, it was, and I didn't die," Jeremy replied, taken aback. He smiled. "Like on the stairs. You thought I would die then too, huh?" He grinned again. John didn't know what to say. His guts were churning. He slapped Jeremy, hard. Jeremy's hand went to his cheek, tears filling his eyes. "What were you thinking?!" John demanded. "Do you want to die, is that it??!" He grabbed the boy's thin shoulders and shook him forcefully. "Don't you care?!" "No I don't!!" the boy exclaimed, angry now, tears streaming from his eyes. "If I died it wouldn't matter!! Everyone would be happy!!" He paused to gather his breath, then screamed again. "So what if I die!! I just make trouble for people!" Perhaps John should have held him then, but he was still too angry himself, out of control. "I care!!" he screamed back, shaking Jeremy violently. "I care!! I love you!! Doesn't that matter?!! I don't care how much trouble you are! You can't die! If you do, I'll, I'll - die myself and chase you down and kill you all over again!" Jeremy was the first one to start laughing, then John started laughing too, both through their tears. "You can't kill me if I'm already a ghost," Jeremy explained, unnecessarily. John grabbed the boy again and held him, the pain in his chest telling him that perhaps Jeremy could survive another of these episodes, but John would not. They had to have it out. "Why do you want to die?" he asked the boy. "I don't want to die!" Jeremy protested. "Then why don't you care of you die?" "Because it doesn't matter. Nothing matters. Everything is a game." "Everything is a game? It's not a game when you die." He released the boy, retaining his hands on Jeremy's shoulders. "Everybody plays games," Jeremy said with disgust. "People say things, and they don't mean any of it. It's sickening. If we all just died, it would be better. No more games. No more lies. I hate 'em all. Even you play games." John's heart sank. He had, in fact, played games with Jeremy - counselor games. "Well, Jeremy, why don't you take a seat and let's talk a bit?" - how phony, how scripted. "You're right," the man admitted. "But I'm not playing any game now. I love you. I don't want you to die." Jeremy turned his tear-stained face upward and looked deep into John's eyes. The look made John uncomfortable, as if the boy were seeing every bit of evil he had ever committed, but he held Jeremy's gaze. Perhaps he was not good enough for this boy - but that was for Jeremy to decide. "It's not a game, is it?" the boy asked, his face stern, looking carefully for any sign of deceit. "No, it isn't," John answered. He hoped that the truth of what he was saying would somehow shine through. "Why do you love me?" Jeremy asked, his cross-examination not yet complete, his eyes narrowed in skepticism. "Because you're the most wonderful boy I've ever met," John said, realizing as he looked into the tear-filled eyes that it was an inadequate answer. "Because you make me run and catch you; it makes me feel young myself." The eyes were not satisfied. "Because of the way you laugh at me, and your beautiful face. You are beautiful to me." John was beginning to feel uncomfortable; this was getting into territory he didn't want to explore just yet. Jeremy looked skeptically at him a bit more, then smiled. He threw his arms around John and hugged him. John, embarrassed at his admissions, returned the hug with hesitation. "I believe you," Jeremy said. "I don't think I love you yet, though." "That's okay," John said, wiping tears from his eyes. He was beginning to feel like *he* was the one being counseled, not Jeremy. "I-it doesn't matter if you love me, I'll love you just the same." "I guess you don't want to teach me boxing now, huh?" the boy inquired. John cleared his throat. "Um, no, I guess not. We can do it tommorrow, all right?" "All right." John stood up and held out his hand to Jeremy, who didn't take it. The man realized that this boy would never accept help if he could do for himself. It was the kind of pride that John had seldom seen and always hated, but now he respected it. He understood it. It was Lawrence's pride. There was, at least, one thing the boy got from the father he disowned. Then John held out his hands and Jeremy, the gymnast, jumped into them, easily finding his place on John's shoulder. John gasped at the impact, his bruised chest beginning to pain him. Jeremy gave no sign of noticing. John walked toward the door of the gym. "Don't we need to get changed and stuff?" Jeremy asked. "We're not that sweaty," John said. "You take a shower every morning anyway, right?" "I take a bath." "Same thing. It's pretty late anyway. We should get ready for bed." "I guess," Jeremy said, nestling into John's shoulder, enjoying the feeling. "Um ...." "What?" John had closed the door to the gym behind them and was climbing the stairs, carrying a boy who weighed over a hundred pounds but never seemed to weigh anything when he was in the man's arms. "I won't try to kill myself," Jeremy said. He remained on John's shoulder, not looking in his eyes. John paused for a moment, then walked on. "I wasn't trying to before, not really. I just didn't care." "I know," the man said softly. "Well, I care now," Jeremy said from John's shoulder, this being obviously a difficult admission for him. "I know you do too. If you tell me to stop something, I will." "Okay. It's all forgotten," John said, stroking the boy's back. "Just never say die, okay?" Jeremy sat up and looked at him. "What's that?" "It's a saying they have in the Army." "Were you in the Army?" "No." "Oh. Well, it's a cool saying anyways." He settled back onto John's chest, trustfully allowing the man to carry him to the destination he chose - a man Jeremy knew loved him and would do him no harm, a strong man who could back up his love with powerful fists. Jeremy had never felt more secure, more happy. And John, too, never felt more satisfied with his life. At length, they arrived in John's room, and he set Jeremy down on the bed carefully, as if he would be broken by a hard landing on a soft mattress. He wasn't. Jeremy looked up at John with the same adoring gaze he had offered before, and John was struck with a feeling of shame, knowing he did not deserve it. Something had to be done to lighten the mood. John got up and turned on the large TV. "What to you want to watch?" he asked. "What time is it?" Jeremy asked. John looked at his watch. "Eight." "The Simpsons. Channel five." John selected the channel and watched the stupid cartoon. Perhaps Jeremy enjoyed it, but it was still stupid. John wound up watching Jeremy rather than the TV. It was a good show. "You have any videos?" Jeremy asked when the show was over. "Yeah, let me see what I have here," John said, walking over to the cabinet. "I have all the Star Treks," he said. He did not want to mention the other videos he had, the ones that had not entered general circulation. Jeremy looked at him with those amazing eyes, seeming to detect the deception. "Do you have any Bruce Willis movies?" the kid asked. "Um, no," John answered, still somewhat put off. "Well, Star Trek IV, then." John put the tape in the VCR and rang the bell for Jorge. He ordered his manservant to go out and get a Bruce Willis movie. Jorge left without a word. The ads for future movies were still rolling when John rang the bell again. Carlita appeared. Her English had progressed, but not a great deal. With some shouting and a great deal of gesturing, John was able to make her understand that he wanted Jeremy's pajamas brought to the room. She seemed surprised but assented, smiling on her way out. "What'd you tell her that for?" Jeremy asked. "You need to have your pajamas on in case you fall asleep during the movie." "I won't fall asleep," Jeremy protested, but seeing it was useless, fell back onto the pillow. John and Jeremy had both seen the movie several times before. Still, the special effects were enjoyable. Carlita came back with the pajamas, and John paused the movie and pointed at the bathroom. Reluctantly, Jeremy went in and changed. The change in him was as amazing to John as when he'd seen the boy in his new gymsuit. Jeremy looked several years younger and much cuter in his thin little pajama suit, bedecked with airplanes. He seemed embarrassed by his appearance, though, and John restarted the movie, focusing on the screen. Jeremy resumed his place next to John, John's arm around his shoulder, Jeremy's head on the man's bicep. Jorge came back with the Bruce Willis movie about half an hour before Star Trek IV ended, but by that time Jeremy was fast asleep, exhausted by the evening's activities. John turned the video off with the remote and picked up the sleeping boy. He carried Jeremy to the room that Maria and Carlita had prepared for him, not far from John's room, and tucked him in. John kissed the boy on the forehead, saying, "Good night, sweet prince, a flock of angels fly thee to thy rest." "What is that?" Jeremy said, apparently awake. "Shakespeare. It's in Hamlet." "'S nice," the boy replied, turning over on his side. John kissed him again, this time on the cheek, and left the room, Carlita holding the door. "Not so bad when he sleep," the woman observed with a smile, trying out her new English. "Not so bad at all," John answered. He slept well that night, more content that he could ever remember.